Reconsidering Failure
by Flatkatsi
Summary: Sometimes things need to be reassessed.
1. Part One

Warning – Spoilers for Zero Hour

Reconsidering Failure

General O'Neill smiled and nodded politely as the last of the assorted dignitaries who had accompanied the President left and his office door closed behind them. He kept smiling until he was sure it was firmly shut, then, as the catch clicked and the final piece of light from the corridor disappeared he pushed his chair out from his desk and sat back, his legs extended and his hands locked behind his head. Only the slight narrowing of his eyes betrayed any sign of his agitation, but there was no one there to see it – he had made sure of that.

He thought back to the short conversation he had had with Gilmore before the President's spy had left the Mountain.

"Goodbye, Sir and I want you to know it's been an honour."

He had prefaced this parting sentence by telling Jack about his 'chat' with Colonel Reynolds. He had relayed it with an air of ill concealed excitement, as if Reynold's brief explanation of what Ba'al had done was something that Jack should be proud of, something heroic.

There hadn't been anything heroic about it. There was nothing heroic in the smell of blood and the stink of raw fear. Nothing heroic in the total and utter feeling of defeat, and with it the despair that still ate away at him even now. Those days in Ba'al's hands had made him see himself for what he really was. There was no doubt in Jack's mind that, after the fourth or fifth death, if he had been able answer the Goa'uld's questions without endangering the lotar he would have.

He had almost given up.

And Daniel hadn't helped. If anything, his presence just made it worse – knowing that somewhere, maybe floating above him like an ethereal fart, was his dear departed friend, listening to every scream, watching every contortion as he writhed against that insidious web. He was meant to be the strong one, the leader, and yet he had been reduced to a mewling coward who had begged for mercy.

Oh yes – he had begged. He had begged to be allowed to die. As the acid ate through his skin and into his bones, audibly sizzling as it dissolved his insides, he had begged. He had pleaded. He had even cried, his tears leaking their way out through betraying lids. Every time the top of the sarcophagus had opened and hands had reached in to pull him from its embrace he had begged. By the end Ba'al's Jaffa had had to drag him back to his cell, his legs too weak with fear to support him.

And each time, as he slid down the wall/floor/ceiling to end up sitting, weary of having to live, Daniel had been there, the pity showing plainly in his face. Jack O'Neill didn't need pity – what he truly needed Daniel had refused to give him. Ba'al had succeeded where his jailers in Iraq hadn't. Jack had given up on any hope of rescue and resigned himself to his fate. Sure, when a chance to escape had presented itself, he had taken it, but he hadn't gone looking for it, hadn't fought tooth and nail like he had for those interminable months in the desert. He had sat there on his backside in that cell waiting to die yet again.

He would have welcomed death with open arms, but even that mercy had been denied him.

He had survived and made it home. At first he hadn't thought survival anything to be thankful for. Every time his body twisted and contorted as the cramps hit him, he had begged for mercy, but this time he had done it silently. The withdrawal had sapped his strength and left him hanging to the edge of reason by only his fingertips, the pain a fitting reward for his failure.

Janet Fraiser had been the first to see it, the first to put the story together piece by horrific piece. She had come to him, where he lay in his private room, locked away from prying eyes, and told him the tale of his ordeal. She hadn't asked for confirmation, the evidence on his clothes and the weeks of withdrawal from the sarcophagus told their own story. She hadn't tried to make him talk about it, not surprising considering that he was only capable of uttering the ravings of a lunatic at the time. In fact Jack was doubtful she even thought he remembered that particular visit.

He had. One of the more interesting effects of the withdrawal, and one that he had neglected to report, was that inside that husk of a man, sweating, cursing, and thrashing on the bed, was a mind aware of every moment. He hadn't been able to speak, but wouldn't have if he could. She had been so sure of herself, so certain she knew the whole story. There was no way she could have known that hadn't been his only set of clothes. After the first couple of days Ba'al had wrinkled his nose at the smell, his fine sensibilities offended, and ordered him removed and cleaned up. The pattern had been repeated until his escape.

One of the first things Jack had done when he got home was throw out anything item of brown clothing in his closet. That was a colour he never wanted to wear again.

So he had recovered, and when General Hammond had thought him ready and the Doc had agreed, he had been debriefed.

It had been just between the three of them on that first day, Hammond and Janet had taken a seat on each side of his bed, Janet with her hand lightly resting on his arm and one eye constantly scanning the monitors above his head. Hammond had asked him if he was sure he was up to it, but he hadn't expected a negative answer and Jack hadn't given him one. And so it had begun.

Jack had told them what they wanted to hear. Yes, he had been tortured. Yes, he had died and been brought back more than once.

Yes, he would speak to Doctor MacKenzie.

And so it was over. Over and done.

He had survived once more.

But this time the cost had been so high he was still paying the debt.

Weeks after his return to the SGC he had finally been allowed to go home and there he had locked all the doors, pulled down the blinds, and drunk himself into a pit dug of depression, disappointment and self recrimination. Down in the bottom of that deep dark hole, in the hours before dawn, he had taken the same gun that had killed his son from its box inside the safe he should have had all those years ago and sat there for hours, waiting for Daniel to show up.

After Iraq he had had his family to sustain him, but now he was alone again in the dark – just as he had been in the days after Charlie's death. He hadn't known whether he really would have blown his own brains out in front of the friend who had betrayed him and left him to rot, but that wasn't the point – he could have. With all the strength of his will he was thinking that he would. Perhaps it was a test, perhaps it was just sheer bloody mindedness, or perhaps he was just so pissed at Daniel that he couldn't think straight, but of course Daniel hadn't come – probably because Jack so desperately wanted him to. So when his limbs had gone numb from the chill night air, and his mind had finally numbed along with them, he had been able to shut off the constant rewinding tape in his mind, the one that showed him screaming.

In the morning he had woken, every pull of abused muscles a reminder that he was still here. That he couldn't even kill himself properly. He had put the gun back into its hiding place and crawled into bed, cowering under the covers like a small child who was scared of the dark

For a while Jack had ever despaired of getting his life back, but in the cold and unforgiving light of a morning days later he had taken a long, hard look at himself. He had to admit to those feelings he had hidden so well from MacKenzie, Janet and the others, if only to himself. Instead of taking the easy road and sinking into depression, he had to think through his experience and re-evaluate it.

One thing was clear right from the start - he had no right to die, by Ba'al's actions, through Daniel's intervention, or by his own hand. There must be a reason that he had survived – he just needed to find it.

Now, here, sitting behind this desk, his name and new rank emblazoned on the door, he thought he had found it. Locked in the ice his mind had finally had a chance to heal itself. All those lonely weeks he had lived in a sort of twilight world between entropy and tranquillity, flashes of memory passing by like wisps. He hadn't been able to find it within himself to be upset by what he was seeing – that part of him that allowed emotion was as inaccessible as more mundane functions such as breathing and moving. It was as if he had been reformatted and some of the old data was being downloaded again. By the time Thor had revived him all his old experiences and knowledge were back in place, but where before they had been fragmented, disjointed, now they were whole. He could look at what had happened dispassionately, as if watching through someone else's eyes, and in doing so Jack understood that the Ba'al thing had played out the only way it could under the circumstances. No one could have survived such an experience untouched, and he was inordinately grateful that he had been given the ability to set it aside and go on with his life. If he thanked the Ancient's for anything, it was that.

That, and the fact that he had been given a gift, if only for a brief time, that had saved the planet and with it everything he cared for. Because he had come to realise that he had never been alone – his friends had always been there for him, he just hadn't let them help when he needed them the most

Yes – there had been a reason he had survived Ba'al, if not intact, at least able to move on.

But he wasn't a hero. He was just very, very lucky.

Jack may have come to terms with his actions while in Ba'al's hands, but that didn't mean that he wanted it to become common knowledge. The file had been sealed; only those who needed to should have had access it. Doctor Fraiser wouldn't have discussed his case with anyone other than Doctor MacKenzie, and much though he disliked the man, Jack acknowledged that the psychiatrist was a professional who was as unlikely to share information about his patients as Jack was to forgive Ba'al for what he had done. The idea that General Hammond had discussed it was plainly ludicrous, and Jack hadn't talked about it with his team – avoiding any attempt on their part to broach the subject.

So how had Reynolds known?

Jack stretched and stood, moving to the door in one swift motion, and opened it, noting the way the SF on duty in the corridor stiffened. He nodded, and turned towards the elevators, his ever present shadow following close on his heels.

"General?"

He acknowledged Walter's question with a vague wave of his hand, muttering about the need for some fresh air, and carried on, reaching the elevator and pushing the button. As he waited, he realised the SF was watching him with something akin to fear in his eyes, and he analysised his action dispassionately, trying to work out the reason why.

The elevator doors opened and he stepped inside, still thinking, wondering how he had managed to spook a man trained to handle any situation. Then, standing in that steel box, it hit him. He felt the tension running through his body, and knew that he was uncharacteristically still, his normally always moving hands held rigidly at his side as if ready to lash out at anything that stood in his way. The SF had instinctively recognised a man standing waiting and willing to kill without hesitation.

Jack made a conscious effort to relax, and threw a quick smile at the young man next to him. Then, with his course of action planned, he halted the car at the Infirmary level.

"Good afternoon, Nurse." Jack nodded politely at the small, slender woman who moved to greet him as he strode through the infirmary doors. "Who's on duty?"

"Doctor Baxter, General, but I'm afraid he's on a break right now. Should I call him for you?"

He shook his head, already moving past her. "No, that's okay. I just need to collect an old report of Doctor Fraiser's from the office." He ignored the sudden look of sadness in the nurse's face at the sound of Janet's name, and gestured to the SF to stay where he was. A quick swipe of his access card, and keying in the code that allowed him to enter any room in the complex, he was in the CMO's office.

A few short minutes later he had what he needed tucked under his arm.

The ride to the surface was short, the only interruption having to change elevators on Level Eleven and contact Walter to let him know he had decided to leave early, then he was out, gulping in the frigid air of a cold winter afternoon, feeling as if the bonds around his heart that had been there since he had spoken to Gilmore, had been loosened just that tiny bit.

xoxoxoxoxo


	2. Part Two

Reconsidering Failure – Part Two

Thanking his driver, Jack O'Neill slid out of the staff car and walked the short distance to his mailbox, finding only the usual advertising flyers. It was an unusual occurrence to discover anything other than bills or junk mail in the box, his contact with his few remaining relatives severed after Charlie's death.

Turning as the car drove off, he spotted the Grantham's teenage son coming out of the front door of the house across the road. He couldn't help but smile at the look of annoyance on the boy's face as he tugged his mother's miniature poodle after him on its bright red lead. The little dog looked as enthusiastic as the boy did at having to go out into the icy air, despite being warmly dressed in a smart knitted coat of bright pink and blue wool. Jack didn't wave, knowing that the teenager would rather not be noticed.

The alarm deactivated, Jack slipped quickly into the house, shutting the door behind him as rapidly as he could, the cold wind snapping at his heels. Quick side trips to get changed, and into the kitchen and he was soon ensconced in his favourite chair, his hands wrapped around a large steaming mug of coffee. The fire he had lit was already warming the room as he settled back and picked the folder up from the cushion beside him.

The file was much thicker than he remembered, only to be expected given the events of the last year or more, but the sheer bulk had still managed to surprise him when he had slipped it from the locked filing cabinet in the CMO's office. He could have looked at it on his laptop and avoided bringing it home at all, but somehow this hardcopy seemed so much more real than pictures on a computer screen, and right now he felt he needed to hang on to what was real and not drift back into memories.

The first pages were very familiar – the photos less horrifying now so far down the track from the bad days of missions gone wrong and injuries sustained in the line of duty. His face stared up at him, haggard, skin splattered with vivid purple and yellow, eyes unfocused, the clinically written reports dehumanising the actuality of misery and pain.

He turned the pages, his face expressionless. Every few minutes he paused to take another sip of the hot drink, before moving on through the years, pages fluttering down to join those already read. Outside, the storm gusts rattled the gutters and set the trees to moaning.

Afternoon turned to evening and the mug was long empty. Now, shoes off, his feet were up on the couch and his head was resting on one of the large cushions. The file was in pieces, reports spread on the floor around the chair, all but one – that was propped up on Jack's chest, held in place by a hand that was not quite as steady as the owner would have liked.

Nowhere in all the vast number of pages of his medical record had Jack O'Neill found anything to surprise him – until now. He had set out to do a little digging to find out just who had known about what he had gone through with Ba'al, instead he found this – a file of reports from the nurses, the doctors, and the specialists.

Carol Thompson: Duty Nurse - 0208 hours: Colonel O'Neill extremely restless, crying out in his sleep. Attempted to leave bed but very weak. Called Doctor Fraiser.

Doctor Fraiser: CMO – 0211 hours. Administered IV Versed to Colonel O'Neill as he was agitated. Monitored with oximeter.

Carol Thompson: Duty Nurse – 0324 hours. Colonel O'Neill talking in sleep. Relieved early by Doctor Fraiser.

Doctor Fraiser: CMO – 0336 hours. Took over care of Colonel O'Neill. Patient distressed. Administered further increments of IV Versed.

And so it went – page after page of notes and reports for all the weeks he had been suffering withdrawal in the infirmary. All those weeks he thought he was aware of, that he could remember every minute of. How many of his memories of that time were the fabrications of a delusional mind? The evidence was here – there were even transcripts of recordings MacKenzie had made. He cringed as he read his own words – raving and crying, telling Ba'al he couldn't answer and screaming as he died. There, in stark black and white was an entire conversation with Daniel, telling him he couldn't go on, couldn't do it anymore. Page after damning page.

The windows shook as the storm grew, and the rain poured down, running in ever increasing torrents into already overloaded drains, and still the General read.

Teal'c had been there. His reluctance to commit the words to paper fairly shouted out of the page, every word well considered and economical. Teal'c had helped to restrain him, held him down as the doctors drugged him. God – Teal'c had held him as he shook and shivered and sweated.

Not once in all those months since had Teal'c even hinted at what had happened.

The pages were flipped faster now, as words piled onto words – a vast heap of statements becoming a mountain that was tumbling down as he read. Carter, the General, Reynolds, orderlies, nurses, – hell, everyone in the SGC – they had all been affected in some way. There were referrals to MacKenzie for the nurses that had had to sit and listen as he relived his torture, there were incident reports for injuries sustained as he fought them, requests for replacement of equipment broken – all chronicled by copies held together with paperclips and pins and stuck into the pocket at the back of the file, as if whoever had put them there had intended to go through them, maybe to only keep the most important, but had never had the chance.

Shit, Janet. What else had she intended to do that would never now get done?

Finally he finished, the last reports slipping from his hands to join the rest on the floor.

The fire had died out, the flames reduced to embers.

His quest was over, but there was no apportioning of guilt. Like the death of Julius Caesar there was no one guilty party, except instead of murder the conspirators had given him life. The conspiracy of silence hadn't been one sided, while he thought he was shielding them from the reality of what had been done to him, they had shielded him from himself – treating him as they always had, and not letting him succumb to the memories. Even when he had crawled home, feeling as alone as he ever had, they had been watching – the last notes between Hammond, Fraiser and MacKenzie outlining a course of action that allowed him to regain trust in himself.

God! Jack shuddered. If they had known how close their plan had come to failure, how he had held and caressed that gun...but it had worked. He had found his own way out of that dark pit, just as they knew he must.

They had all trusted him, and judging by the incident in the Gateroom, they trusted him still. Reynolds and the others had shown him, the only way they could, that they understood and supported him, just as they always had.

Jack sat up, the chill air making him shiver. He stretched joints that gave audible cracks of protest, and stood, making his way to bed, the papers forgotten. As he climbed under the covers, he realised one clear and somewhat startling thing.

He had survived, and on his own terms. With the quiet assistance of so many people, he had gotten back his life and gone on. He had survived something that no one should ever, in their wildest dreams, have imagined could be endured.

Maybe it was something to be proud of after all.

The End 


End file.
